


we'll hear our song and know once more, our love lives on

by orphan_account



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Character Study, Dreams and Nightmares, Early Mornings, F/M, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Memory Loss, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Relationship Study, no beta we die like non native english speakers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25974580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There is a thin line betweenthisand mere selfishness, he thinks, but his heart speaks before his mind can catch up and properly elaborate his thoughts.“Will you sing for me?”
Relationships: Apprentice & Asra (The Arcana), Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	we'll hear our song and know once more, our love lives on

**Author's Note:**

> this came to me in a fever dream and honestly. it's been YEARS since i last wrote something so long. so quick. in english!? so yeah. constructive criticism is always appreciated! and oh, meet my apprentice, mali'ya! had so much fun writing her. now if you'll excuse me, i shall head back to sleep,
> 
> song title: how does a moment last forever by céline dion

In his dreams she’s always singing.

Actually, she’s _humming_. With her back turned to him and her hands slowly, carefully washing the dishes, Mali’ya breathes out the songs of her childhood in soft whispers.

Asra’s heard her talking in her native language before; she did that often with her aunt, chatting animatedly about something that made her cheeks flush in embarrassment and hurriedly look at him, almost frightened that he’d been eavesdropping on them. It was always a sight seeing that pale skin of hers getting redder and redder, adding a lively tone to her delicate features. But in spite of the tenderness in their gazes the words were harsh, crashing one against the other and linking together in a way so foreign to his elegant Vesuvian that Asra couldn’t quite decipher.

When Mali’ya sang, though, everything would change.

Rhymes as sweet as honey dripped from her lips as if they’d forgotten all about their hardness, maybe lost to the water running down the sink or still lingering in her mouth. And she would often hum the same song, her favourite—the one about an old spirit trapped in the forest she’d burnt to ashes, stubbornly waiting every year for spring to come and rescue her. The same spring she’d destroyed and she would conquer with her utmost sacrifice.

It was a rather sad, melancholic tune in Asra’s opinion. Nothing compared to the joyous chants he would hear in the streets to honour the coming of warmer seasons, or when snow fell swiftly and silent on the docks. Yet there was also something akin to hope as the ending approached, something _lighter_.

Asra could never give a name to the feeling, always way too focused on how Mali’ya’s voice would die out like candlelight as she put the last dish on the shelf and turned to him with a shy smile.

“I wonder how you never get tired of it,” she’d say. “It’s not the loveliest song. Or language, even.”

“Actually,” he’d reply, mirroring her smile from his seat at the table that’s the only thing preventing him from kissing her here and _now_. “It’s very _very_ lovely, if you ask me.”

Jade green eyes rolling and velvety cheekbones heating up ever so quickly, the faintest shadow of doubt in her gaze. “Come on, lunch break’s over. I bet Aunt is done with restocking, too,” she would shush him patiently, reaching for the small corridor—giving him a long, knowing look before disappearing downstairs.

Finally, “You don’t want to keep _her_ waiting, do you?” she’d ask in a voice that is not hers anymore, distorted and sad, almost snickering with pity in the growing darkness.

In the distance, someone sings a song of longing and fear.

This is where dream and memory dangerously, _painfully_ merge together to become something more. Asra blinks and she’s gone, _again_ , because he left her in Vesuvia and thought only about himself, once more—blinded by the absurd, dumb certainty that he could actually live without her, without the one who had held his heart and soul more delicately than anyone else in his life, who had kept them safe and kissed them good morning and goodnight and murmured lullabies in the dark of the home she’d made for him. She, who was made of chopped roots and timid branches and so much gentleness he could drown in it. 

But what had he done instead? He’d _abandoned_ her when she needed him most. He’d taken her for granted from day one, apparently, because there was never a time in which she’d beg him to _stay_. 

And ironically, he’d never been a master in the arts of _letting go_.

Asra had long believed he was the king of losing—first, his parents. Then their home, when the palace guards had come to seize it. And then again the security of the docks, once Lucio had threatened to do unspeakable things to his dearest friend if Asra had refused to do as he pleased. That—until a certain someone had stumbled her way to his makeshift booth, scared and curious all the same, the night of a Masquerade lost in time.

His first memory of her is nothing romantic, nothing spectacular; nothing that could tell him he’d found the one he would come to love and lose by his own hands. Mali’ya’d come in shaking, confused by the noise and the flow of people waltzing their way to the palace, Vesuvian still unfamiliar on her tongue in excusing herself for the unpleasant entry. Asra had mocked her for it—just his own way to break the ice, really—but the joke lost itself in her eyes filled with wonder, watching as she took a peek at the masks on display. Eventually, after long moments of silence and the rattling of coins of a bargain struck, she’d left with a chinchilla one safe in her hands.

Asra had tilted his head just slightly. _Weirdo_.

He’d see her again that night, when fireworks would be about to light up the pitch-black sky and the excitement of the passer-bys was palpable as they strolled their way to the marketplace. Asra, too, had gotten out of the booth for a better view, carefully approaching the street.

When the first skyrocket burst among the stars—when the night was filled with colours and laughter and cheers, and there was no more darkness surrounding them—that was the moment he really _saw_ her. Mali’ya was sitting on the shop steps, alone, watching the iridescent flowers blooming up above their heads with her hands cupping her cheeks and her body frozen on the spot, amazed.

It felt like being starstruck.

Asra couldn’t stop staring at her. At how she looked so little, bathed in the rainbow colours of the sky. Solemn, too, despite her childish pose. Then—by some miracle, or sheer intuition—she turned towards him.

And because he sure had looked so lost, so _dumb_ in fixing his gaze on her, breathless and surprised and with his heart jumping in his throat all at once, Mali’ya had waved at him. Shyly, almost reluctantly, tiptoeing in his life before putting her heart and self and even _more_ on the line for him.

Asra leans in on the table as the room starts to vanish like thick smoke all around him, arms covering his face and fingers carding through his hair, his grip firm and punishing because _you killed her, Asra. You killed her and she’s never coming back. At all. And it’s just your fault._

It gets cold in the nightmare. The wind howls, no more songs sung for his own entertainment or fireworks shining in the sky. Asra stays still. There are no tears left to cry; he’s dried them long ago, digging his hands until they bled on the black shores of the Lazaret.

_If it wasn’t for you, Mali’ya would still be alive. Breathing._

It takes him half a second to put a face to the voice echoing in the void of his mind.

 _Why did you leave, Asra? Why did you leave my niece alone? You promised you’d take care of her on my behalf. I_ entrusted _her to you. Do you have any idea of what she must have gone through while you were away, warm and healthy and very much alive? Do you, Asra?_

“Yes! I— No— I was scared! I didn’t want to—!”

He’s desperate when he roars back an answer. He shouldn’t even be allowed to, in all honesty; he should just sit there and listen to what Mrs Heralia has to say—to what, to some extent, he himself keeps repeating over and over again like a mantra.

 _Do you know why she did not come after you when you left? Do you know why she_ stayed _? Can’t you possibly imagine why?_

A sigh, low and disappointed—sharp—before the killing blow.

 _I wonder if you really knew Mali’ya as well as you said. If you really_ loved _her as much as you claimed to._

Asra jumps in his seat, chair falling then disappearing into the darkness and his throat aflame as an apology tries to fight its way to Mrs Heralia’s stern presence around him. A choked sob comes out instead, before another follows, and another, and _another_ —

_Yes! Yes, I loved her! She was… Mali’ya was... everything good I’ve ever known._

Suddenly he feels like a child again, out in the cold. _Alone_. His master has vanished, too, and in the wide, scary unknown around him that’s slowly drifting from pitch-black to the candid shades of white Asra feels it; the touch of death caressing him, passing him by, so his lungs are full of air and his heart pumping in his chest. It almost seems like heaven, this floating around aimlessly in pure light, but that’s not it.

The first thing he hears is the familiar sound of cutlery clinking before him.

Asra opens his eyes and wakes up to the small kitchenette on the shop’s first floor. Nothing has changed a bit since he’s come back; some herbs are left to dry hanging above the stove, just where the salamander’s sleeping soundly, and colourful jars fill the cramped shelves.

Second thing he hears, and focuses his eyes on, it’s _her_.

Mali’ya is singing a different song this time, one Asra has never heard before. She’s even… tilting her head along with the tune. He holds his breath—but the dream takes over the memory too quickly to linger and he’s falling, _again_ , curled up in the white nothingness around him.

Until a distant voice calls out to him.

Something warm comes to hold his face and his body is now heavier, out of his dream-like state, and his lungs struggle to catch up with his frantic pants and he swears—he _swears_ —Mali’ya’s singing to him in a language he’s heard before. One he’s once _felt_ , touched and _cherished_. One he misses dearly every day of this god damned life he threw the both of them into.

“Master? Can you hear me? I’m here, Master. You’re safe— Please, _please_ wake up.”

Asra slowly cracks his eyes open to take in his surroundings. He’s in their bedroom. It’s late night, or maybe early enough for the sun to rise. He can’t really tell. Fireflies swirl silently around him—no, not _fireflies_ , but tiny spheres of light. Delicate hands cradle his face, thumbs gently stroking his cheeks.

Mali’ya lets out a long, relieved sigh. She’s sitting on the bed with her knees tucked under her, smiling reassuringly in his direction, golden hair cascading in messy waves on her shoulders and down on her back. _How can anyone be so beautiful?_

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, a bit startled when his eyes lay on her. Asra can’t see it, but he just _knows_ there’s a blush on her face at the sudden realisation of their close, if intimate, proximity. She doesn’t let go, though. “It was just a nightmare.”

Asra props himself up on one elbow and regrets it immediately, as the motion eventually triggers her hands to fall away quickly from him and rest on her lap.

“’M sorry I woke you,” he blurts out, still fighting the remnants of sleep.

Mali’ya shakes her head, lips still up in the gentlest smile. “Don’t say that,” she coaxes him, but then she stops, unsure. There’s something else Mali’ya wants to say, Asra can tell by her hesitation. And surprisingly, slowly, she manages to get through it.

“Is there… Is there anything I can do? Like,” she’s _adorable_ when she starts fidgeting with her hands, he thinks, looking at her expectantly, “Like a cup of tea. Or I can brew you some chamomile, if you want, or...” Jade eyes pierce right through him like arrows from Cupid’s quiver, timid and sincere and utterly, ever agonizing. “A hug?”

Asra sits, fully awake now, smiling teasingly as he raises an eyebrow. “A _hug_. You sure make it sound important, do you?”

“It _is_ important! You always hug me when I have nightmares!” Mali’ya shoots back, not taking any of his playful tone even though the red spreading on her cheeks says a lot about the embarrassment of his remark. “Okay,” she decides, voice louder this time as she stumbles out of bed and walks to the kitchenette, “The tea will do.”

Asra laughs. She’s never been comfortable with displays of affection, has she? Even _before_ this whole mess it had taken her a while to step out her bubble and hold his hand just because, or kiss him on a whim, let alone anything like listening to her body when the words would fail them. And Asra had been happy, oh, _so_ happy to witness the growth of her blooming confidence.

When he follows her in the small kitchen, Mali’ya’s crouched down beside the stove. She murmurs something in a quiet whisper, looking apologetic, then gets up to pick a flower from the ones he brought her from the forest just yesterday. She kneels down again, offering the wild amaryllis to the salamander, and beams.

“Thanks. And sorry for troubling you, little one.”

“He must have a soft spot for you,” Asra points out as he takes his seat. “I never seem to bribe him right.”

Mali’ya giggles and proceeds to close the tap once the teapot is full. She then adjusts it on the stove. “Oh, he’s actually pretty easy to woo. After all, everybody wants to be pampered once in a while.”

Resting his chin on the inside of his hand, Asra hums quietly. “So do I get to be pampered, too?”

There is a thin line between _this_ and mere selfishness, he thinks, but his heart speaks before his mind can catch up and properly elaborate his thoughts.

“Will you sing for me?”

Mali’ya freezes, then turns to him. Her eyes seem a little sad when she replies. “I’m sorry, I… I can’t think of any songs.”

_I’m sorry I can’t remember._

Asra’s heart sinks in his chest. “No, it’s—”

“Do you… do you have any suggestions? They say you can make a song out of anything.”

Their eyes meet, and Asra sees nothing but steel determination. She’s always been like that; gentle like a stepping stone rounded by fresh waters, sturdy enough to offer a handhold to whoever happened to stumble upon her. Never asking anything in return; always taking in what the world had to offer. Obliging, yet firm in her own beliefs—until the very end.

“Master?” she calls out to him and Asra quickly snaps out of it.

“You remember those old rhymes,” he starts, careful, “The ones I would recite when you couldn’t sleep? It’s been a while, though, you probably—”

“The poem about the forest spirit. Yes,” Mali’ya cuts in. “I remember _that_. You translated it for me since I didn’t know the meaning.”

He hadn’t, either. Looking up for every single word had been his only salvation the first nights he’d brought her back home, when Mali’ya was still sound asleep from her rebirth, her _resurrection_ , and he could only watch over her without fail.

“Right,” taken aback, Asra doesn’t say anything else. Silence falls uncomfortable between them, only broken by the whistles coming from the teapot. Mali’ya reaches for the lid and lets some leaves fall into the boiling water. Then—only then—she mimics a smile.

“That’s unexpected, isn’t it?” She stirs the tea a bit with a spoon, then leaves the pot alone to reach for the cupboard. “I should think about the rhythm first. Don’t want to stop in the middle of a lyric and leave you hanging, right?”

Mali’ya’s making up excuses and they are both very much aware of that. To be honest, it soothes Asra a little. Even _before_ she’d never been one for public performances, feeling somewhat ashamed to sing to him, or even her aunt, for a reason he’d never dared to ask about. He silently adds another regret to his never-ending list.

“Also, you said you heard it from a traveller.”

Asra's smile is soft at the recollection. “Something like that.”

Mali’ya pours the liquid in their cups and slides one in his direction, finally sitting across him. She blows on the steam rising from the infusion. “Were they native? From—where does the song come from?”

“Venterre. And yes, they grew up there... but left at a young age.”

Mali’ya quietly hums to herself. “Then I should fix the pronunciation, too. Though I suppose it’s not the loveliest language.”

“It’s actually very _very_ lovely,” Asra simply replies.

Beyond the curtains the sun begins to rise, idly bathing the kitchenette in its warm and golden light. Mali’ya ponders something, chin on her palm as she looks over the window. And just like that night eight years ago, with fireworks blooming in the sky, Asra can’t stop looking at her. She’s _glowing_ , ethereal and strong and _beautiful_ in the fiery red of dawn.

He pinches her nose, distracting her from whatever train of thoughts she might have hopped on. “Do take your time,” he suggests before taking a long sip, and lowering his gaze.

“Yes,” he hears her say, a smile carefully concealed between her lips. “We have plenty.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for coming this far my darlings, hope you liked it <3


End file.
